


The Noon Hour

by Persiflager



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harriet  enjoys a quiet morning at Audley Square.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Noon Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anabel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anabel/gifts).



> Kindly beta-ed by [archea2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/archea2).

_'There is nothing more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends.'  
HOMER: The Odyssey_

Solitude, like all luxuries, is most appreciated by those who have it least often. Harriet had grown accustomed to a great many luxuries since her marriage to Lord Peter Wimsey and was therefore now even more appreciative of the few that had become rare – champagne, driving, and being alone in the house.

On this particular spring morning the townhouse at Audley Square was not empty but it was quiet enough to give the illusion of relative solitude. Miss Bracy had been dispatched to the British Museum to research mummification techniques and Mango had gone to visit her father, showing her lack of faith in Harriet’s ability to dress herself by leaving strict written instructions as to Harriet's wardrobe for each day of her absence. Narrowly resisting the temptation to disobey out of sheer mischief, Harriet had followed Mango’s sensible suggestions and dressed in a cream silk blouse and burgundy woollen skirt – comfortable enough not to be a distraction while working, smart enough to satisfy Mango’s exacting standards of appearance for a Lady.

Harriet had taken advantage of their absence to make some rough notes for a possible new novel. It centred on the outspoken archaeologist sister of Wilfred, unfortunate protagonist of ‘Death ‘twixt Wind and Water’. From a simple plot device in the early drafts she’d grown into a fascinatingly complex character, and Harriet had had to ruthlessly cull many of her scenes because there simply wasn’t room to do her justice within the confines of that story. She’d stayed in Harriet’s mind though, demanding to be written, and Harriet had eventually decided that the only thing to do was to give her her own book. 

It was an odd sort of story that she had in mind - dark and twisty, with subtle religious themes running in and out of the main plot. The idea was nebulous and fragile enough that she'd been reluctant to try writing anything of it down when there was even the slightest possibility of being interrupted. 

Now she looked with satisfaction at the pages of longhand piled in front of her. Yes, that would make a decent book, and Phoebe Tucker would be delighted to help out with hands-on details of an archaeological dig. Harriet made a note to write a letter to Phoebe directly after lunch while the story was fresh in her mind.

Phoebe Tucker had managed to continue her career while having children, so it was certainly possible. Indeed, with all the resources at her disposal, Harriet had never really doubted that that she would be able to continue to write. But ancient posts and dusty bones existed outside of one’s subconscious and were not wont to change their meaning depending on one’s mood. What Harriet was concerned about was – no, concerned wasn’t the right word. What she was curious about, rather, was whether motherhood would change what she chose to write about. Marriage certainly had and, she was starting to suspect, for the better. 

She glanced at the clock - nearly noon. Out of the window of her ground-floor study she could see that the builders who were converting the mews house at the end of the garden for the soon-to-be Bunters had gone inside for their lunch. Having had her fill of solitude for the day, she went in search of Peter.

…

Harriet found her lord and husband frowning at a thermometer in the library. The sight of his fair head bent in concentration never failed to produce a swell of possessive fondness in her breast - _mine_ , thought a greedy, primitive part of her brain, _he’s all mine_. Smiling at her own foolishness, she indulged her selfish self for a moment before intruding.

‘Hullo,’ she said cheerfully, crossing the room to sit down on the large brown leather sofa. ‘Are the words of Mercury harsh this morning?’

‘Not as harsh as the winter and rough weather were on my poor incunabula.’

‘Then come hither,’ said Harriet, patting the seat beside her invitingly.

Peter looked up and smiled. ‘Harriet, dearest, how lovely it is to see you.’ He put the thermometer back in its case and joined her on the sofa with a kiss. ‘If there’s anything better than one’s wife turning up to lend stalwart support, it’s one’s wife turning up with a come-hither gleam in her eye.’

‘Idiot,’ she said, when her mouth was once more her own. Damn Peter, reading her thoughts before she even realised they were there.

‘A fact which you had ample time to observe before you committed the monumental folly of marrying me. You cannot be as those who spend the day in complaining of headache, when you spend the night in drinking the wine that gives it.’ Peter wrapped one arm around her shoulders and she leaned back contentedly into his embrace. ‘Speaking of gleams,’ he continued, ‘one can’t help but notice that the frenzied madness of creation appears to have passed from your countenance. Productive morning?’

‘Yes, I think so. Have I been neglecting you horribly?’

Peter put one hand to his chest and struck a martyred expression. “As your husband, I am downcast. But as the president in chief of your fan club, I delight in your un-wifely professionalism.’

‘Your godmother informs me that husbands, like aspidistras, thrive on benign neglect.’

‘She would.’

‘Are you really the president?’

‘In chief. Your Miss Barton is the Treasurer, my mother the Patron and Bunter is the Member Without Portfolio. We meet every other full moon to enact dramatic readings of your work. You can join if you want but please apply three working days in advance and enclose tuppence for tea and biscuits.’

‘Sounds marvellous.’

‘Naturally.’ Peter tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and kissed it. ‘I say,’ he murmured, ‘ghosts of godmothers aside, it is rather nice to be alone with you.’

How perfectly silly it was that such a simple statement should quicken her breath so. ‘How long do we have until lunch?’

Peter checked his watch. ‘Just under half an hour.’

‘May we be really naughty? Is that allowed?’

His smile grew broad. ‘The happily married couple, making love in their own home in the middle of the day? Definitely not.’ He caressed the thick wool of her skirt where it lay across her thigh. ‘We haven't in this room yet, have we?’

‘We have left undone this thing which we ought to have done,’ Harriet replied solemnly

Peter slid his hand under the hem of her skirt and up, his palm hot through the delicate silk of her stocking. ‘License my roving hands, and let them go,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Behind, before, above, between, below.’ So saying, his long, elegant fingers suited action to each word.

Harriet's breathing sped up, and she bit her lip; cries that might be ignored in the middle of the night would attract far too much attention at this hour. 

Peter's mouth curved in a wicked smile against her neck. ‘N'hésitez pas à crier, ma chère.’

Harriet pressed her lips together and shook her head stubbornly. The fact that the result was a foregone conclusion didn’t mean she was going to give in without a fight.

‘Very well.’ He was merciless with his touch. A thorough education, intimate acquaintance with the subject at hand and natural aptitude combined to form a devastating opponent, and her defences fell in a matter of minutes.

‘Ah!’

‘Ssh, darling.’ Peter looked absurdly pleased with himself. He kissed her thoroughly.

Harriet returned his embraces with a languid passion. She felt marvellously warm and relaxed, her skin tingling with renewed energy. Filled with a sudden, impulsive mischief, she climbed into his lap.

His breath caught. “Mon cher coeur-“

‘Have we time?’ 

‘World enough and.’ His voice was husky, awed.

‘Good.’ Harriet grinned wildly and reached down for the opening of his trousers. “Turnabout is fair play, my cunning lad.”  
…

Bunter descended to the kitchen at twenty-five minutes past twelve precisely to find Miss Dunn and her kitchen staff bustling about with an admirable efficiency that spoke of preparation and much practice. Excellent cooking was only to be expected from a cook of Miss Dunn’s experience but her calm demeanour and strict kitchen discipline had earned Bunter's healthy respect.

A certain frostiness had existed in their relations when Miss Dunn was first installed at Audley Square - as was only to be expected and perfectly reasonable, she had harboured some slight resentment regarding Bunter's occasional forays into her realm. But the diplomatic application of thoughtful, exact praise, delivered from one professional to another, had softened the chill enough that Bunter's presence in her territory was no longer remarked upon. On occasion, she even ventured so far as to greet him cordially and share a short conversation on the relative merits of different dishes.

Meredith, slow and precise as ever, was carefully pouring chilled sherry into two glasses on a silver tray.

‘I'll take those up,’ said Bunter loudly over the din.

Meredith nodded. While he brooked no usurpation of his duties in the normal run of things, fraternal ties notwithstanding, he ceded unquestioningly to Bunter on any matter directly involving his Lordship.

Bunter took the drinks out into the blessed quiet of the downstairs hall, then climbed the stairs to arrive outside the library door at precisely half past twelve. Balancing the tray on his right hand, he pressed his left ear to the door. The faint murmur of conversation was barely detectable. He pushed open the door and entered the library.

‘Ah, Bunter,’ said his Lordship from the table where he was engaged in an examination of a manuscript. ‘Punctual as ever.’ His eyes twinkled as if he knew the reason for the thirty-second delay, as well as why Bunter had taken over the sherry duty from Meredith (who, despite having been married for nearly twenty years, was relatively prudish and more easily shocked than Bunter.)

‘My Lord,’ said Bunter, inclining his head, and he placed the tray down on an occasional table. ‘My Lady.’ Her Ladyship was sitting on the nearby sofa with a book in her hands.

‘Thank you, Bunter,’ she said, looking up with a smile that lit up her face. Not the most beautiful face, as he'd observed before, but when it came alight there weren't many to touch it (Miss Fanshaw's being a notable exception). And if her Ladyship's glowing complexion was attributable to something other than her happy and blessed state, well. Not that it was his place to judge, but Bunter entirely and whole-heartedly approved.


End file.
